Green Thumb
by RosesSharon
Summary: In search of a post-war hobby, Sam decides to try her hand at gardening. Based on a headcanon from FoyledAgain, and at the request of Lauraposa and AbjectAdmirer.
1. Chapter 1

Based on a headcanon from FoyledAgain, and in response to a Tumblr request!  
As a side-note: I feel almost certain that Sam would have more likely planted a victory garden than a rose garden, but still, flowers seem like something Sam needs more of in her life.  
Also, I know this story progresses a bit faster than my usual work does, so hopefully you guys won't mind. I wanted to get this written and on the web, so it's not quite how I'm used to writing. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Spring 1946

Post-war life had become dull. One wouldn't necessarily suggest there should be more murders to keep life in Hastings interesting for Sam and DCS Foyle, but as far as Sam was concerned, they could certainly do with more excitement. Really, she was lucky Mr. Foyle had agreed to let her help him write his memoirs. Other employers would have waved off her off post-haste once she was no longer necessary, but that was not the case for Sam.

Her driving was obviously an added appeal, she rationalized, but, still!

Lately, Sam had also come to miss her morning routine: Quick breakfast at the billet, then off to the station in her kettle-steamed uniform – always at 6:00, on the dot. The work itself was not always routine (even Mr. Foyle couldn't predict when and where a murder would take place), but on the whole she usually had a place to be, with set things to do. Now, she felt aimless, flitting in and out of Mr. Foyle's house at different hours on different days, running the occasional errand… it was so mind-bogglingly dull.

About two months after the Germans had surrendered to the Allied Forces, Sam came to the realization that her work was going to change. If Mr. Foyle really retired, which all signs seemed to suggest he would, she would have to find a hobby. Something rather healthier than running after deranged killers and drug lords…

… or playing bloody cards.

She soon decided she'd try something new: gardening. Her uncle Aubrey was rather good at it, and the possibility that green thumbs ran in her family gave Sam some hope of success.  
While victory gardens had taken off all over England during, and even before, the war, Sam wanted her garden to be not only practical, but beautiful. She was not a frivolous person – quite the contrary, in fact – but the memory of Uncle Aubrey's rose garden in Lyminster filled her with happy memories of her childhood Easter and summer holidays at the vicarage.

So, roses it was! Sam had no bloody idea how to tend roses, and she'd always heard they were temperamental. But, she was nothing if not willing to learn, and she'd certainly have something to do with her time!

Sam phoned her uncle that following weekend, bombarding him question questions – were there any nurseries still around? Surely the war had finished off all those small businesses in the area, and anything not started from seeds would be extraordinarily expensive. So, where would she find them? What should she do?

Aubrey suggested she visit him, and offered to give her some of his "starts," as they were apparently called. He had propagated roses for years, using cuttings from established bushes and reproducing them in the small potting shed in his back garden. Consequently, he hadn't purchased new roses since before the war.

Her uncle gave her four small shrubs – so small they were hardly even bushes – and, despite her protestations, made her stay for a few days and learn the basics: pruning, watering times, propagation, and pest control.

Still, Sam soon learned that gardening was not quite as straightforward as she had originally thought. Water use was still restricted, so she was forced to start collecting rainwater. But rain was often light, and no matter how hopeful she was after each drizzle, a glance in the collection bucket showed very little improvement.

Not only that, but upon learning of Sam's intended garden, Milner, Brookie, and several others at the station started donating their own small potted plants to the cause.

In only a month she'd obtained:  
\- A tomato plant from Milner ("Thought you might enjoy something fresh every once in a while. Make a change!")  
\- Rosemary from Brookie ("I never much cared for the stuff myself. Tastes like soap, if you ask me.")

\- A rather poorly-looking primrose from one of the chief constables ("My wife's sick of looking at this, so you're in luck!")

\- Several purple thrifts from the night watchman, and

\- A magnificent foxglove from Milner's wife, Edith, who'd recently started a small garden of her own.

As the plants started to look sadder, Sam had to resort to recycling bathwater, running the collection pail up and down the stairs several times a week to keep the flowers from wilting. Had the spring been any harsher, Sam was certain all the plants would have died.

The roses were growing at a steady clip. However, they soon became even more trouble.

Roses, like many ornamental flowers, were susceptible to disease and insects, she learned. They were growing swiftly and almost reached her waist, yet the leaves kept blemishing, the leaves curling and turning brown within a few days. Sam had to stop by the library every other day to research treatments for dark spot, mildew, aphids, and spider mites.

On top of all this, she couldn't afford proper tools. While she had a trowel, shovel and hand rake – all thanks to her landlady's predisposition to never dispose of anything – but she had no gardening sheers, no potting soil, no gloves…

The latter proved the most difficult obstacle to overcome. Sam's hands and arms were becoming increasingly more unseemly, with bloody gashed streaked along her forearms and palms.

Foyle knew about Sam's project – she'd practically burst with excitement when she first discussed her plans with him over tea the previous year. One afternoon, as he patiently waited for her to finish typing a particularly lengthy paragraph, he cut her short with a surprised inquiry.

'That looks nasty,' he said, gesturing toward her raked hand resting on the table. (He'd yet to find a way of subtly suggesting she speed up her process by typing with two hands instead of one.) "Roses coming along?'

'Sorry?' she started, before catching his meaning. 'Oh, yes-' she said, glancing at an unpleasant gash along her left wrist before resuming her typing.

'You wouldn't think it to look at me, though. Afraid I don't have any gardening gloves. I thought about using oven mitts, but I'm not sure my landlady would approve.'

He nodded silently, considering the image and just barely masking the amusement it afforded.

'Wull, just be careful, Sam,' he said, returning to his tea. She smiled briefly at him, and pulled the page from the typewriter.


	2. Chapter 2

Returning home that evening, Sam took one more look at the roses: The bark was becoming darker on two or three of them, and new branches sprouted up through the middle. The sight filled her with dread. If her hours of research had taught her anything, it was that roses needed air circulation through the middle of the plant, and new growths in the center had to be removed. She wasn't looking forward to the bloodbath this would initiate.

As she stood, arms crossed, staring down the obstinate shrubs, she was struck with inspiration. She had gloves, she'd just never thought to use them…

Sam darted up to her bedroom and rummaged under her bed, looking for the small, brown shoebox she'd stored there shortly after her stint with the Hastings Constabulary had come to an end. It didn't take long to find it. She was rewarded with a strong whiff of aged leather as she removed her standard-issue MTC mechanic's gauntlets from their premature hiding place.

They did the trick. She hated to put the soft leather through the ringer like this, but these gloves were perfect for the job, and for the first time, Sam was able to work diligently without fear of injury.

Somehow, over time, the little garden started to establish itself. It was not quite flourishing, but by the following spring, Sam's heart swelled as she was reworded with new blooms, and evidence that nearly everything had carried through the following year.

Suddenly, tomatoes were ripening, and the rosemary began pungent. By summer, Sam's garden had finally matured into something beautiful. Though she was hardly a professional, her messy work had come together in a surprising fashion, and she couldn't wait to show Mr. Foyle. After collecting a few small tomatoes and sprigs of rosemary one day in late August, Sam decided to invite him to dinner. He agreed, smiling appreciatively and saying he would bring a fresh catch from the river.

As the day drew nearer, Sam put even more work into making her small plot more presentable. She had started composting the previous autumn, using kitchen scraps, egg shells, newspapers, and fallen leaves to create healthy soil for the flower beds. It seemed to be working rather well, for the roses started blooming in abundance this season, and the primrose was showier than ever.

Finally, the day arrived. As she bid Mr. Foyle an early goodbye to start preparing dinner, he handed her the bounty from his fishing trip that morning.

'Let me know if you need anything else,' he said. 'And I'll be bringing something special later.'

She hoped, rather than believed, it would be something sweet.

By 5:00, Sam had diced the small tomatoes, mulled the rosemary together with a few other spices from the rack, scaled and prepped the fish, and collected a small arrangement of purple thrift for the table.

She was adding the spices to a somewhat indulgent measure of rationed butter, when there was a knock on the door.

Mr. Foyle _had_ brought something for her, though she was slightly disappointed that it was not dessert. It was a 2-foot-tall bush… of some sort, with the roots bound in hessian. Sam could not identify what type of plant it was, but noticed the leaves still held their vibrant green hue.

'Wasn't sure if you could use this or not,' he said cheerfully as she welcomed him in. 'It's a lilac – well, it was, at some point. My, eh, my wife planted it before Andrew was born, but it hasn't done much blooming in a while. I thought perhaps you might have better luck at it.'

He followed her through to the kitchen, and leaned the plant beside the back door.

'Thank you, sir! I've never had lilac. I'm sure it will be lovely.' _Hopefully it won't die at my unskilled hand,_ she thought with a hint of dread.

Sam set about adding the spiced butter and a dash of salt to the thawed fish, and Foyle layed out the crockery.

'Those are nice. Yours?' He asked, noticing the thrift blooms on the table.

'Yes!' she beamed. 'Those probably came form a hedgerow somewhere, but they seemed to transplant quite well.'

She cracked a little pepper over the fish, then bunged it into the oven with an undeniable sense of achievement.

When the plates were set out, Sam took a bottle of sherry out of the cupboard –Uncle Aubrey had given her a bottle when she'd visited last year.

'Oh, thank you, Sam! Should have thought to bring a bottle,' Foyle said.

'No, don't worry, sir, I don't mind. Actually, why don't we take this out to the garden?' she suggested. He gave a small smile and nodded.

There was a small wooden table and two chairs by the back door, and the warm evening made this spot perfect for relaxing before dinner. Foyle took the bottle and glasses and set them on the table, and insisted Sam let him carry the lilac out to a suitably airy spot beside the flowerbed.

The garden was still quite small, and the rapidly expanding rose bushes made the flowerbeds look even smaller. Sam had begun to propagate the tomatoes already, drying out seeds and planting them in small pots, which now littered the border of the bed like decorative gnomes.

'Where would you like it?' he asked.

Sam pointed to a vacant spot a few feet to the right of the tomatoes.

'Would that be far enough away, do you think?'

He nodded, setting it down.

'You can cut it back if it becomes too unruly,' he added, dusting off his waistcoat.

It was then that Sam caught sight of a new fresh yellow bloom atop one of the rose bushes. Unable to help herself, Sam went into the potting shed and collected her gloves and tools.

'Have you ever worked with roses?' she asked him as she buttoned her gloves in place.

'Nnno, I can't say I've much of a green thumb," Foyle said with an eye-crinkling smile.

'I never understood that term,' said Sam, taking her old fabric scissors to a dried stalk. 'I've never seen anyone's thumbs go green from gardening.'

Sam continued to chatter as she examined the shrub for further signs of decay. Catching sight of her MTC gloves, Foyle couldn't help but smile as he his hands withdrew into his trouser pockets.

 _She must miss it,_ he thought, his eyes lowering absentmindedly to the nearby primrose.

'Sam, why don't I help you plant the lilac?' Foyle asked suddenly, taking her by surprise.

'Are you sure, sir? That would be jolly good of you, only you mustn't make your clothes dirty.'

Foyle shrugged and removed his jacket.

'Easily taken care of. Now, where can I find a shovel?'

While he dug the hole, Sam got to work removing the hessian wrap from around the base of the lilac bush. After collecting a pot of compost from the bin, and draining the last inch from her rainwater collection bin into a watering can, Sam rejoined Foyle and began to position the shrub and fill the hole.

When the planting was done and Sam had added the water and compost, they took a moment to admire their work.

'That should do well, I think,' said said Sam, smiling at Foyle. He smiled back, remembering a time when Roselyn had said the same thing, dirt in her hair, in front of this lilac bush.


	3. Chapter 3

This is a mini chapter just to tie things up at the end.  
incidentally, youguys may be interested to learn more about the flowers mentioned throughout this story - especially lilac. Suffice to say, it's not a coincidence that lilac was the flower of choice in this scenario.

Hope you enjoyed!

* * *

It was spring once again, and as he enjoyed his morning cop of earl grey, Foyle was surprised by a loud, familiar knock at the door. It sounded urgent.

'Sam, what's wrong?' he asked after rushing to the door.

Sam's face was flushed and she seemed out of breath, but her grin seemed even wider than usual this morning.

'Mr Foyle – I'm sorry to startle you – but I think you should come see what's happened in the garden." She was breathing so heavily at intervals that he wondered if she had run here.

'Now?' he asked dubiously. Her smile faded a little, and he immediately regretted these words.

'No, of course, I didn't mean-'

'Alright, Sam, let's go then,' he said, grabbing his hat and jacket and closing the door behind him. The smile returned to her lips, and they quickly climbed into the Wolseley.

'I take it something good's happened?' Foyle asked, trying to hide his amusement as he followed Sam's bubbly lead through the kitchen and into the yard.

'You'll never believe it, sir!' she chirped as she held the door open for him.

Then walked out to the flowerbed, where Sam gestured triumphantly toward a small, cone-shaped cluster of flowers on the lilac bush.

'Isn't is wonderful, sir?' she chimed.

Foyle was shocked, and soon he was smiling almost as widely as she.

'That's wonderful, Sam,' he said. 'I knew you could do it. It seems to be thriving.'

'It's grown a whole foot since New Years,' she said, happily. 'I was so worried about it, though. I couldn't have forgiven myself if I'd killed your lilacs.'

Foyle rested a hand on her arm reassuringly.

'Sam, this is your lilac now, not mine. I'm glad to see it's being cooperative.'

Sam lowered her gaze back to the shrub, and ran her arm through his. His smile deepened slightly, and he rested his hand over hers. As he turned to look at her, he was taken in by her expression - it was one of utter bliss. He then rested a gentle kiss on her cheek, and rested his forehead against her.

'Congratulations, Sam,' he said softly.  
Sam's heart beat slightly faster, yet she was completed and totally at ease.

'Thank you, sir,' she murmured in response.

She couldn't stop smiling.


End file.
